


the past is a grotesque animal

by Ejunkiet



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Frank taking care of Karen for a change, Minor Injuries, Post-Season/Series 02, and some not so minor injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-01 07:58:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6509602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejunkiet/pseuds/Ejunkiet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>A figure breaks away from the shadows beside the window, hands held high in the air to show that he’s unarmed. There’s a wry twist to Frank Castle’s lips when he steps into the light. “Easy. It’s me.”</em>
</p><p><em>Her finger tightens on the trigger, but she doesn't fire. It’s a close one, though, and she eases her grip on the weapon, flicking back on the safety and lowering it to her side before she did something rash and stupid, like hit him with it.</em><br/>--</p><p>Karen Page and Frank Castle. A new city, a new beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. drinks between friends

**Author's Note:**

> There will be another part to this, keep an eye out for it over the next few weeks!
> 
> This is my first venture into this fandom, although I've been writing Kastle ideas pretty much non-stop since I finished the season. (what can I say.) The title is from the song of the same name by 'Of Montreal'!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She can't hide anything from him, and the double standard bothers her: how he can be so sensitive and attune to other people’s emotional states, yet so unreachable himself?_

_"God damn it."_

It’s late, beyond late, and Karen Page has had the day from hell. Her keys rattle in her hands as she tries and fails to fit them into the lock for the third time, fumbling them until they clatter to the floor in a jangle of metal.

“Shit.”  

She braces herself against the door frame and takes a moment to wait for the world to stop spinning. 

Today had gone from bad to worse to batshit crazy, all within the span of an hour. There’s a police report with her name and number listed on it, her story is dead in the water, and she’s exhausted and weak, bleeding out on the doorstep of her tiny apartment, in a strange city hundreds of miles from Hell’s Kitchen.

From home, a part of her wants to say, but she catches the thought. Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t her home, not anymore. 

She takes another breath, doing her best to steady the tremors in her hands, wrangling with the strange mix of exhaustion and left over adrenaline that she’s become familiar with over the last year. When she’s calmer, she tries again, breathing out a sigh of relief when she fits the keys into the lock and gets it open.

The aching pain in her side flares as she maneuvers into the entrance hall, cursing through her teeth as she jams the door shut behind her and collapses against it, head tilting back to stare at the ceiling.

She’d been here for little over a month and she’d already witnessed her fair share of violence and death. When she’d left Hell’s Kitchen, she’d thought somehow that she’d finally leave all of this bloody history behind. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. The Punisher. Wilson Fisk.

She'd been naive. Death clung to her, like the stink of gunpowder had clung to her skin for hours after she’d fired seven bullets into James Wesley’s chest.

She disables the security system awkwardly with one hand pressed tightly to her side before she navigates the narrow corridor towards the living area, kicking off her heels on the way.  

Something stops her when she reaches the end of the hall and she pauses as she takes in the room, cast into shadow by the curtains she hadn’t drawn this morning.  Someone has taken the liberty of moving her furniture, clearing out a walkway through the mess of boxes that had previously made the room nearly impossible to navigate.

Shit.

Her free hands slips back into her purse, brushing over her phone as she reaches instead for the .380 she still keeps close at hand. It says a lot about her life that she trusts her own skills with a weapon more than the ability of the local police force. Especially after a night like this. 

She takes a breath, keeping a tight grip around the handle of her weapon as she raises her voice so that she can be heard clearly throughout the apartment.

“I’m armed. If it’s my shit you want, I don’t have anything of value. Just take what you have and go.”

A figure breaks away from the shadows beside the window, hands held high in the air to show that he’s unarmed. There’s a wry twist to Frank Castle’s lips when he steps into the light. “Easy. It’s me.”

Her finger tightens on the trigger, but she doesn't fire. It’s a close one, though, and she eases her grip on the weapon, flicking back on the safety and lowering it to her side before she did something rash and stupid, like hit him with it.

"Holy shit, Frank." 

Her heartbeat is a loud, thundering pulse in her ears as she collapses back against the door frame, letting the tension seep from her shoulders. The last surge of adrenaline burns its way through her body, taking the last of her energy with it, and she forces herself forward to take another step into the room before the last of her strength fails her and she has to spend the night in the hall.

The movement pulls at her injured side and she winces as the pain flares and she reaches down to press against it, unthinking. There’s a sharp intake of breath, and she realizes her mistake too late as his gaze flickers down to where she'd tied her sweater around her waist, tight, in an attempt to stem the bleeding. It’d been a damn waste of an expensive sweater, but it had done its job, giving her the time she needed to get through her statement at the station and stumble home. 

It wasn’t doing as good a job right now, the dark fabric heavy, weighed down by the blood that had seeped through her shirt. Shit.

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” 

Whatever faint traces of good humor that could be found within his expression when he stepped into view vanishes as his eyes narrow in on her injured side. His eyes flicker between her and the sweater, taking in her expression. His hands flex at his sides, but he says nothing. 

She tightens her grip on her sweater, resisting the urge to turn away from him and hide her injured side from view. She won’t feel ashamed about this, not in her own apartment. 

“What are you doing here, Frank?”

It’s been half a year since she’d last crossed paths with Frank Castle. She hasn’t seen him since that last, long night in Hell’s kitchen, the loud retort of sniper fire ricocheting through the air as she stood huddled amongst the local police force, waiting to see the outcome of a fight she didn’t understand. Scenes from that night still haunted her, despite her best attempts to drown them out with alcohol and, when the pale face of Wesley snuck into her dreams as well, the sleeping pills she’d been prescribed, for when the nights became too long and the days wasted away into nothing.

It'd only been a few months, but it feels as if it has been longer. He hasn't changed. The bruises remain, purple and yellow stains amidst the meshwork of scars and scrapes, and although the worst of it seems to have spared his face for the most part, the dark shadows beneath his eyes speak volumes. 

There are small differences, though, which she notes as he steps further into the light. His hair has grown out of the close military crop he’d favoured in New York, and his face has filled out, evidence of a few good meals a week, making him look less half-dead and skeletal, on the verge of collapse. He moves to the window, peering around the edge of the curtains to scan the road below, and she notices the boxes of weaponry that litter the floor, haphazardly scattered amongst the boxes of her things that she’d never gotten around to unpacking. Her apartment’s cramped little living room has apparently become his gun locker.

When Frank finally stops moving and turns to face her, his eyes flickering between her and the sweater, fingers twitching at his sides, it’s not to answer her question. "I thought you’d left all this behind.” 

Irritation flares in her gut, hot and sharp. She’s dealt with more than her fair share of bullshit today, and her hold on her temper has already been worn thin to the point of fraying. She makes a point of looking him up and down before she replies, “clearly, I _haven’t._ ”

She turns her back on him, intent on making her way towards the bathroom and the first aid kit she keeps in the cabinet below the sink, but he catches up with her before she's made it halfway across the tiny apartment, snagging her by the elbow and pulling her to a stop. "Wait."

She can't make out his expression, even when the light of a passing car casts the harsh cut of his features into sharp relief, and it should scare her when he's like this, unreadable and unpredictable, but it doesn't. She isn't afraid of him, hasn't been for a long time.

He doesn't say anything further, and she takes a step back, pulling away his touch as she restores some of the distance between them. An unidentifiable emotion flickers across his expression as he drops his hand back to his side, but it's gone before she could be sure of it. 

She goes to walk past him, and he stops her again, although he doesn't grab her this time, just steps in her way again.

"Let me," he tries again, and his voice is softer, when he adds, "please."

His gaze is steady in the low light, patient, perceptive in that way that pierces through the confident facade she’s been maintaining since she walked out of the police station. It’s one of the qualities that she most appreciates in him, but at the moment it only serves to piss her off. She can't hide anything from him, and the double standard bothers her: how he can be so sensitive and attune to other people’s emotional states, yet so unreachable himself?

If she's being honest with herself though, she's not sure if she’d be able to handle this alone. The standoff lasts for maybe a minute or so more before she relents.

"Fine.”

\--

She lowers herself onto the edge of a sofa cushion as she watches him make short work of the distance to the bathroom. He returns a moment later with her medical supplies looking less than impressed and she can’t blame him: what she has is little more than an oversized first aid kit and a surplus of gauze. In her defense, though, she hadn’t expected to end up in this predicament -- when she finally came to the decision to leave New York, she’d planned on leaving _this_ behind, too.

“A fresh shirt?” She nods towards the bedroom, and he disappears again, the rickety wooden drawers of her wardrobe creaking as he rifles through them. She takes advantage of the moment’s privacy to start working on the knot of her sweater, her fingers slipping against the sodden, resistant fabric. It takes some finagling, but she manages it, removing the damn thing before Frank re-enters the room, pyjama set in hand, and kneels at the floor by her side.

She glances up from where she’s untucking her shirt to level Frank a look. “That isn’t necessary.”

He ignores her, gesturing to her hands where they’ve paused mid-motion. “Lift up your shirt.”

She’d take offense if his tone wasn’t so clinical. His expression remains neutral while he waits for her to comply, taking stock of the supplies he’s gathered from the different areas of her apartment. She gingerly grips the hem and lifts it, stopping when the movement pulls at the skin of her side, and she releases an angry hiss, biting into her lip. She can’t move anymore.

He’s there ready, waiting, at her side, his voice a low murmur as he asks, "can I?"

She sighs and releases her grip on her shirt, giving him a nod.

His hands are warm and weathered, rough against her skin, but his touch is careful and measured, gentle as he picks up a pair of scissors and cuts through the fabric of her ruined shirt, a white linen blouse that she’d only bought a month ago. She’s sad to see it go, but when he glances back up at her, fingers poised at the edges of the fabric, she nods at him to continue, biting her bottom lip as he peels away the soaked layer of cloth.

It doesn't take long for him to reveal the worst of it, clearing away the clotted blood and fabric until he can see the long, narrow cut that slices along the curve of her waist. His eyes narrow as he takes in the details: the scrape across her lower back, the dark stains of fresh bruises across her rib cage and chest. She’s dressed in little more than her bra, but she doesn’t feel as exposed as she thought she would. 

"It's really not as exciting as it looks."

He lets out a snort, not bothering to raise his head from where he's examining her. She takes in a sharp breath when she feels his hands on her, pressing gently at the skin around the wound, careful to avoid the bruises. "Right."

Her teeth dig into her lip as he pokes around a bit more, her abdominal muscles twitching under his hands, before he finally relents, rocking back on his heels until she can see his expression, his mouth set into a firm line.

“This is more than just a scrape.” His eyes are hard, intent on hers as he inches a little closer, ducking his head to ensure he has her full attention. His voice is low as he continues, “this kind of hit needs force behind it.”

"It’s not what you think,” she tries, but he doesn’t reply, just waits, eyes flickering between hers until she relents.

“I got caught by some debris during a building collapse in a condemned warehouse on the other side of town. I know," she adds, as his expression grows incredulous, "it was stupid. I was lucky, it could have been much worse."

He releases a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, shaking his head as he rocks back onto his heels, replacing the space between them, muttering something that sounds a lot like ‘ _jesus christ’._

As if he was one to talk. She purses her lips, but before she can respond to that, he’s pulled out a stack of gauze and rubbing alcohol, and started cleaning the area around the wound, mopping up the blood that’s dried to her front. He’s gentle, but the skin there is freshly bruised, still swollen, and even the slightest touch makes her wince. She turns her face away to hide her expression, but he catches it anyway and murmurs a soft apology.

"What were you doing there?" 

"I had a meeting with a whistle blower. His previous employers beat me to him, though; he was dead by the time I got there." She eyes him closely, taking in the hard set of his expression, the wear and tear she can see on features, suspicion growing in the recesses of her mind. “You don’t look surprised.” 

He shoots her a look, warning her away from that line of questioning.

The silence that falls between them is familiar. Frank’s movements are brisk and efficient, the product of extensive training and practice in the field. She takes a measure of comfort in the sure steady pressure of his hands against her side as he works at clearing the clotted mass of blood and fabric that’s stuck to the gash, all calm confidence and easy practice.

When he’s done, he unwraps another fresh section of gauze and uses the weight of his hand to put pressure on the wound. The fabric stains easily, absorbing the older clotted blood that had originally sealed the wound, and he glances up to meet her gaze.

"You won't need stitches."

“Thank God." 

He snorts, and she can see the wry tug at the corners of his lips as he reaches back down to the medical kit, using one hand to maintain the pressure as he pulls out another packet of gauze, replacing the one under his hand. “God sure as hell aint got nothing to do with it.”

He grabs a bottle of povidone iodine from somewhere, she’s not quite sure where – it’s sure as hell not hers: her first aid kit wasn’t stocked for anything more inconvenient than a papercut- and pauses long enough to catch her eye, his expression serious once more. “This is going to hurt.”

She nods, clenching her jaw as he slices open the packet and cuts out a square, dousing the fabric with antiseptic. She’s still not prepared for the sheer amount of pain she’s hit with when the solution makes contact with the wound, however, and she bites down sharply on her lip, drawing blood as her nails bite into her palms. Her hands clenched into tight fists, she shakes as he uses the edge of the soaked gauze to dab at the edges of the cut, clearing away the debris.

“Holy fucking  _shit_.” 

“Hold on. I need to go in again.”

He takes her hand, squeezing it, before he applies another layer of solution, and she turns her head to muffle a scream against her shoulder. She’s breathing heavily, trying to catch her breath when he wipes away the last of the antiseptic, rinsing out the wound with water before applying a layer of antibiotic with cotton buds he’d taken from her bathroom cabinet.

The world gets fuzzy for a few moments as he wraps her mid-section in a fresh section of gauze, tying the ends tightly, before his warm hands cup her cheeks, gentle as he angles her face towards his.

“You still with me?”

She manages a nod, wincing as the room sways with the simple motion. But she’s feeling stronger by the second, and when she speaks, her voice is even and steady. “Yeah.”

He backs up a little, giving her a little more room to breathe, his thumbs rubbing slow soothing circles as the world steadies once more. 

“Thank you, Frank.”

He holds her stare, his eyes dark and impenetrable. She still can’t get a read on his expression, not when the lighting is this poor, and she wishes for a moment that she’d had the forethought to flip the light switch. 

Finally, he says, “don’t mention it.”

He moves back a little more into the light, and she can see the muscles working in his jaw as his gaze flickers across her features, taking in the dirt and the scrapes, the evidence of her mistakes and bad judgement. He pauses at her mouth, lingering there for a moment before he removes his hands and leans back, settling on his heels beside the couch.

The shadows hide his expression once more as he fetches her shirt, helping her when she struggles to get the oversized fabric over her head. It takes them a while, taking extra care with the bandages that swathe her side, but it’s not long before she’s clothed and another comfortable silence falls between them.

\--

Now that the crisis is over, Karen finally gets the chance to take a better look at the man crouched next to her on the floor. His military arsenal is scattered across her apartment, his hands are stained with her blood, and she still has no idea why he’s here.

“What are you doing here, Frank?"

He glances up from where he’s wiping down his hands with fresh gauze and rubbing alcohol, and gives her an amused look, brow raised.

"S' been a while. Wanted to see how you're holding up." 

It’s not the whole truth, not by far, but there’s enough of it there that she doesn’t push. She suspects the full answer has something to do with the large volume of military grade artillery that’s currently scattered across her apartment, components of a plan she’d likely want no part in. Part and parcel of the mantle of the Punisher. Still, if she’d learned anything about Frank Castle, about the man that he became, than she knows she can trust him not to involve her.

Even knowing that his visit wasn’t entirely for altruistic reasons, she can’t help but feel glad to see him. There had been things that had gone unsaid between them, and things that never should have been said in the first place. Too much and too little for that last encounter, and his parting words had haunted her for months, compounded by her regret for her own part in the exchange.

If the way he’d stitched her up and made himself at home in her apartment was anything to go by, she’d say he felt the same way, too.

“It’s good to see you.”

Her words are sincere, and he looks surprised by them, glancing over to catch her gaze and hold it, considering. The corners of his mouth tilt into the ghost of a smile, soft and honest; a complete contrast to the harsh angles of his face, the deep shadows that skate his jawline and cheekbones.

Even then, through all the scars and echoes of violence in his features, she can see that once, his mouth was made for smiling.

“You too, Miss Page.”

Glancing at his hands, he releases a short breath, before standing and making to leave. The thought that this could be the last time she sees him like this, softer, gentler, more _human_ , crosses her mind and she makes an impulsive decision, reaching out to catch his arm. He pauses, his expression unreadable as she bites her lip, throwing caution to the wind. “Stay. Have a drink, at least.”

The muscle beneath her hand is taught, a line of tension that runs through him and lies thick in the air between them. His gaze flickers across her expression, silent for a long moment, and just when she thinks he’s going to just turn and leave, he asks, “what do you have?”

She smiles. “Scotch."


	2. night terrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”_  
> 
> Same city, same night.

Frank follows her into the kitchen, a shadow at her back as she moves slowly through the cramped space, careful with her bandaged side. She gestures at the small table in the corner and begins rifling through her cabinets, looking for the bottle of scotch she'd been saving since she left the Bulletin. She finds it in a narrow cupboard by the stove, behind a rack of spices she had forgotten she'd owned, and turns with a triumphant smile to where Frank is still standing, hovering in the doorway.

His brows rise when he catches the name on the label, and Karen's smile grows, turning just that bit smug.

“Expensive stuff.”

She nods and glances back down at it, her expression softening. “It was a gift.”

Mitch hadn't been entirely happy with her decision to leave the Bulletin. He had, in fact, been the opposite, and he’d been very vocal about his disagreement with the reasons Karen had given for her decision to leave New York. Despite his objections, however, he had wished her well in her future endeavours, and the bottle of Glenfiddich she currently held in her hands had been given to her as part of her leaving package, with a note advising her to take care. 

She’s glad to have found an excuse to open it.

Frank moves to the chair closest to the sink, the one with the best view of the rest of the apartment, only hesitating for a brief moment before he takes the seat. He's bigger than life in such a domestic setting, almost too large for the space, and his shoulders hunch slightly as if he's subconsciously aware of the way he clashes with his surroundings.

She places the bottle on the table, aware of his eyes on her as she turns to grab two glasses from the drying rack by the sink. "I hope you like it neat. I don't have any ice, and it'd be a waste with this anyway."

"Neat's fine."

His hands are folded on the table before him when she returns, the tension slowly working its way from his shoulders as she sets out the glasses before them, and she stays standing as she pours them both a healthy measure of scotch. She moves carefully to avoid spilling and passes one to Frank, and his fingers brush against hers as he takes it, callouses rough against her skin.

Lifting her glass in a mock salute, she leans back against the counter and downs the shot. The whiskey burns as it makes her way down her throat, and she closes her eyes, savoring the way it cuts through the tangle of her thoughts, the underlying tension beneath it. 

When she looks back at him, his glass is empty and he’s pushed back from the table, watching her, his hands tapping an absent rhythm against his thigh. His eyes trace the arch of her throat, dark and unreadable, glancing away when he notices she's watching, but she doesn’t confront him about it.

A few more minutes pass in comfortable silence before Frank says, "I'm sorry. For earlier."

She glances at him, surprised. He meets her gaze, sure and steady, and she raises a brow, leveling him with a look. “For what, exactly? Breaking into my apartment, or insulting me?”

He coughs out a laugh, glancing away as he wipes at his face, and she hides a smile behind her glass. “All of it, I guess.”

She lets out a snort, not bothering to disguise it, and his lips twitch again, suppressing a smile. It's not much, barely more than his customary smirk, but it's the closest approximation of the real thing that she thinks she'll get from him, so she’ll take it.

The faint traces of good humor remain in his expression as he glances around the room, taking in the boxes, the bare walls and sparse decoration. It's not entirely unexpected, since she'd only moved into this particular apartment a short while ago, but she's also in no hurry to rectify the situation, finish her unpacking and make the apartment her own. This city doesn't really feel like her home, and if she's being honest with herself, she doesn't think she'll stay here much longer.

Nothing in Frank's expression gives her any idea what he's thinking as he meets her gaze again. He gestures at the boxes, head tilting to the side as he fiddles with the empty glass in his hands.

“How’d it feel, leaving the Kitchen?”

She takes in a breath, holding it for one long second as she considers the question. "Cathartic.” She narrows her eyes, gesturing back at him. “How did you know I left?”

He shifts in his chair, resettling his weight further back into the seat as he raises a brow, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. “A little bird told me.” 

She snorts again and he pushes away his glass, his expression making that blink-and-you-miss-it switch from casual to serious as he levels her a long, searching look. “He misses you, you know. Red,” he elaborates when he catches her puzzled expression. “Murdock. The Devil of Hell’s kitchen.” 

It doesn’t surprise her that Frank is aware of Matt’s identity. It should, but it doesn’t. In the craziness of those last few months in Hell’s kitchen and the subsequent revelations that followed it, she’d found that very little surprised her anymore.

“There wasn’t anything left for me there.” 

“Is that right.”

The night at the diner, the conversation they shared over cups of possibly the worst black coffee she'd ever had, rises sharply to the fore.  _What you have– your love for him, your pain for him - you_ have _it.  Hold onto it, tight: don’t let it go._  Except that her feelings for Matt didn’t extend to the masked vigilante that patrolled the streets; didn’t extend to the half of him that she barely knew at all.

The duality of Matt Murdock had led to the end of his law firm, and the inevitable involvement of the people around him in a life of violence and schemes they had no say in. She wasn't interested in being his collateral damage. Not anymore.

She glances up from where she's been fiddling with her glass to find Frank's eyes on her, and she meets his stare with a challenge.

She doesn’t want to think about the Devil of Hell’s kitchen tonight.

The standoff lasts for less than a minute before he rolls his shoulders in a shrug and glances away, and she takes the remaining seat at the table, pouring them both another measure of scotch. The second one goes down easier, drowning out her thoughts, and she enjoys the warm haze that's creeping over her as the alcohol makes it way into her system.  _It helps you not care so much_. If only it was that easy.

Deciding to steer the conversation back into safer waters, she narrows him with a look as she pours herself another measure of whiskey. “So, Frank. How  _did_  you find me?”

He laughs at that, lips twitching into another smirk as she goes on to refill his glass and he meets her gaze when she settles back into her seat. “Honestly? Wasn’t that hard.” 

\--

Between the two of them, the bottle disappears quickly, although it seems as if she’s the only one it has any effect on. Her head is spinning by the time she decides to finally call it a night, but Frank is as alert as ever, dark eyes darting between the shadows of the room as he palms his glass and wishes her well, informing her that he'll be gone by the morning.

She's not sure how she feels about that. This thing between them, whatever it is, feels unfinished - and she's afraid that if he goes ahead and leaves now, they'll lose whatever progress they've made here, falling back into what they were before, as if they were little more than strangers.

Looking him over, it's also easy to see that it's been days since he had last gotten a good night’s rest. Her resolve firming, she leans across the table, ducking her head until she catches his eye.

“You should spend the night here, Frank. On the couch,” she adds, when his grip slips and he sets his glass down on the table with more force than he'd intended. She files that bit of information away as he gives her a long look, his expression unreadable.

“That’s not necessary.”

He says it as if the point was up for discussion. “I insist.”

It’s a small sofa, but he doesn’t have any complaints, accepting the spare blankets and pillow from her with a soft grunt of thanks.

She leaves him standing by the couch, large hands carefully folded around the floral print patchwork quilt that had been passed down through Karen's family for generations.

\--

_“You won't shoot.”_

James Wesley is cool and collected despite the fact that she has a weapon on him, his posture deceptively relaxed as he leans back in his chair, eyes unreadable behind his glasses. 

"How'd do you know I haven't done this before?"

The gun in her hand fires once, twice, three times. Seven times, in total. Wesley grunts and slumps within the metal chair, the colour fading rapidly from his face as scarlet blooms across the crisp white starch of his shirt.

He’s dead within ten minutes. She knows this as her fingers rest against his pulse, catching the exact moment his heart beats for a final time and his skin goes cold.

Nobody comes. Wesley wasn’t lying about that, at least: nobody knows about her involvement at this point beside him. She takes the gun with her, wiping down any and all surfaces she might have touched, careful to leave no trace of herself behind.

Her hands shake, but she feels detached from it, almost dissociated as she drives down to the Hudson and drops his weapon into the water.

No matter how much she scrubs, she can't get rid of the feeling of his cold, clammy skin beneath her fingertips.

\--

She wakes with a gasp, feeling like she’s choking.

She's breathing too fast, too hard, and she feels dizzy, the world spinning around her. Hands catch her as she sways, on the verge of blacking out, and Frank’s there, taking her face between his hands. He says _something_ , but she can't hear him over the roar of the blood rushing in her ears; can’t begin to understand him.

She grasps at his hands, clinging to his wrists as she struggles to break through the fog of sleep, even as she begins to understand what is happening. 

This is a panic attack. She's having a panic attack.

Frank stands above her, hair tousled and face sleep worn as his hands lower to rest against her shoulders, holding her steady as she struggles to regain control of her breathing.

"Karen, with me." He takes in a deep, measured breath, and she tries to follow it, her hands shaking as she buries them in his shirt. She manages one slow, gasping breath, and he nods, squeezing her shoulders. “Good. Hold it. Now release. Slowly.”

She follows, and he smiles, little more than a crinkling of his eyes, a twitch in his lips. “Again.”

\--

"You want to talk about it?"

She shakes her head, not quite ready to speak, her fingers flexing in his collar, and he seems to get it, his grip tightening around her incrementally as she presses her face into his shoulder, focusing on her breathing.

The steady thump of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips helps. It gives her a rhythm, a pace to match, and they stay that way for several minutes as her heart rate finally returns to normal.

When she finally pulls back and raises her head, he’s waiting; his eyes are on her, calm and reassuring.

"Hey." 

He’s a lot closer than she had previously realised, and she can see the yellow stains of fading bruises on his skin, the marks of stress that line his features and deepen the shadows on his face.

"Thanks, Frank." It feels as if she's been saying that a lot lately.

His grip tightens on her shoulders, and his eyes crease into a gentle smile that's at odds with the marks of casual violence on his face. He doesn't respond, but there's nothing to say as they wait out the last few hours until morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> join me on my tumblr (ejunkiet) for all things kastle and more!

**Author's Note:**

>  **Authors note:** the wound cleaning methods described in this fic are not the recommended treatment method. Rinsing with water/saline before applying antibiotic is the best way to treat a wound like this. The author apologises for the inaccuracies presented above.


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